


Simplicity

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:00:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: In hindsight, Harold thinks, he would have expected for it to happen very differently.





	Simplicity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesireeArmfeldt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/gifts).



> *hides in corner* I'm so sorry this is so tiny, but my access to my laptop and internet has been severely limited this last month.  
> I hope you'll like this tiny thingy anyway.

In hindsight, Harold thinks, he would have expected for it to happen very differently. Realistically, perhaps, he might have expected for adrenaline to become the catalyst, that perhaps they’d find a corner in some alley after chasing after someone or running away, that they’d move in close with panting breath somewhere small and dark and secluded. Or maybe it would be relief, finding each other again after one of those too many times their connection suddenly cuts off while one of them is in peril, as in those moments, he has always struggled to hide the fact that his concern and relief are a little too profound for the one felt for a friend, and it’s all too easy to think that in any of these moments, the relief might have overwhelmed his restraint. Injury would be another possibility, that this would happen as a means of comfort.

In any case, even though he can’t claim he, although guiltily, hasn’t idly imagined all these variants and more at some point or another, he has never thought of this with any measure of realism and as such, he has never had any expectation. Maybe this is why the way it actually happens is so unexpected, the lack of expectation makes the fact that this happening at all, no matter the specifics, unexpected by nature.

When it does happen, there is no adrenaline, no pain, no fear or concern or thoughtlessness by lack of control. It’s a quiet afternoon on a quiet day, so quiet that they didn’t even need to leave the library to resolve their number, and they haven’t received a second one. A residual hint of the smell of their take-out hangs in the air from when they went out for a walk through the park and concluded it by getting lunch.

Underneath his desk, Bear is dozing on his bed, soft puffs of air sometimes interrupted by slightly louder huffs, and in those moments, his tail and paws twitch, and Harold finds himself smiling, imagining that Bear must be dreaming about chasing one of the rats that unwisely wander into the library every now and then.

Next to him, John is leaning back comfortably in his chair, absorbed in a book the title of which Harold can’t read from this angle, looking perfectly at ease. It’s rare to see him with his guard down like this, without the constant hypervigilance the CIA trained into him, and the sight has something warm and perfectly content spread through Harold’s chest.

He hasn’t even realised that he has stopped typing – he has been keeping himself busy by trying to improve a virus he has written years ago, nothing of particular importance, just mildly engaging busywork that has him equally relaxed by now – until John looks up at him and meets his eyes. Harold knows the smile is still on his lips, one that is much more open and content than the ones he usually allows himself around his too observant partner, but the day has been so quiet and peaceful that he cannot seem to remember why he shouldn’t smile at John like this.

It’s then that a smile of his own finds its way onto John’s expression, just as content, and unbearably fond and tender, almost too much so for a smile given to a friend until Harold realises that no, not  _ almost. _ Something must have given his realisation away – and this is not surprising, not with the way his heart is fluttering all of a sudden, and the feeling in his chest turns warmer still, hovering cautiously on the edge where contentment might turn into happiness – because John abruptly looks away and clears his throat, seemingly returning his attention to his book, except his gaze remains too still to be reading.

There are two pathways Harold could follow now and on any other day, in any other moment, he might have chosen a different one, would have doubted himself and what he saw and returned to his work, to the safety of being content. He doesn’t. He can’t help but keep looking at John, at the different kind of tension that has taken hold of him, at the way his eyelashes cast soft shadows over sharp cheekbones and the way Harold wants to trace them with gentle fingertips.

It doesn’t take long until John’s eyes flicker back up, a hint of surprise showing for a fraction of a second when they find Harold still looking back at him before morphing into something discontent, something sheepish and remorseful.

“John, you...” Harold says, somewhere between an observation and a question, before John can look away again.

The faintest flush colours John’s cheeks now, hardly visible if Harold weren’t looking.

“Yeah.” John admits, quiet and simple, voice rough. There is an unhappy twist to his lips now, the remorse increasing, the sheepishness morphing into embarrassment and Harold hurries to give his own admission and interrupt that progress.

“Likewise.”

It’s too short, too simple to encompass the enormity and the complexity of what he feels, all the doubts and uncertainties still lingering, the importance. He speaks softly, hoping to let his tone say what he can’t quite put into words at this point, and it’s almost enough. It makes John’s eyes widen, hope warring with disbelief in those greyish blue depths and Harold does his best to let him  _ see _ as well, to let his smile gentle further, let it fill with all his affection, let John see how despite the racing thoughts that he shouldn’t allow himself this, the warmth in his chest is now steadily bleeding over from contentment into happiness. And it is enough when John lets out a breath that sounds like relief and his smile looks like the same happiness is bleeding out into him as well.

The book drops down and startles Bear, who quickly settles back down after a disapproving huff over the noise, but Harold hardly notices as John crosses the distance separating them with a single step, crouches down so Harold doesn’t have to strain his neck to look up at him. There is a last moment of hesitation, caution in the way John’s gun-calloused hand cups Harold’s jaw, like he expects that this moment will dissolve into nothing but dust if he takes it too far. Harold leans into the touch and smiles reassuringly, bringing his own hand up to rest against John’s collarbone, slides it upwards and around until he is cupping his neck and can tug him closer still, and then John kisses him. Soft and simple and happy.

And no, perhaps this is not the way Harold might have expected it to happen if he’d allowed himself such expectations. But it occurs to him that perhaps, this is what he  _ should _ have expected. After all, as unexpected as it had been, falling into friendship had come quietly, comfortable and content. Perhaps it should have been expected that falling into more would be much the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
